


Half Fragment

by coffinofachimera



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Bottom Harry, Brief Mention of Eleanor, Canon Compliant, Closets, Dialogue, Fantasizing, Light Angst, Loneliness, Louis-centric, M/M, Phone Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-17 14:07:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10595589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffinofachimera/pseuds/coffinofachimera
Summary: Louis and Harry share a night together through the phone.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place the day after Ultra Fest. I took too long to write it.

"I loved um... the picture of you with the red jacket. The pap one. You're looking off a bit to the side."

"You like the jacket?"

"No, I li— I mean, yeah, I like the jacket. But I'm... It's my favorite picture of you, right now."

"Oh?"

"You look really handsome."

"To be honest I haven't taken a look at them outside of, like... taking a glance to see what the fans were saying for a bit like, fucking yesterday."

"Lurking."

"Lurking, yeah."

"Mmm, well..."

"What?"

"Let me just send you the picture. I want you to see it."

"You gonna text me?"

"Yes, I'm gonna text you."

"On this phone or...?"

"Yeah this one. Give me a second."

Louis pulls away the phone from his ear and gives a glance down to the screen. "Agh." Too bright, he realizes with a squint at that glaring LED. Never got to adjusting it before he turned off the lights and lied down on the bed. The conversation's dragged on for hours with such generous zeal there's been no time for him to have had a thought outside of it, that pleasant spectrum. His attention is rarely this loyal to a single cause. But this one happens to exist as a sovereign, and held as the highest priority.

Phonecall with Susan on iPhone #3. The only name in the contact list.

_"Susan's calling. Whoever that is. Who's Susan?"_

_"Me uh... friend. It's a friend. I've been expecting her."_

Louis declined to party for the evening, of course.

"There we go..." he murmurs in a private remark as he brings down the screen's brightness to a comfortable 0%. And just in time for the jingle of a new text vibrating his phone. He sees the attached picture sitting there in his messages— and frowns, quite gently, before returning his phone to his ear. "Harry—"

"Wait—"

"—that was your foot." Half of it, anyway. Wrapped in a Nike sock.

Harry giggles. "—Yeah, it was an accident! Yeah. This is— Wait... um..." His speaking rushes clumsy with its gait, working secondary to some principal goal.

"Quite a fuss, eh?" Louis likes that it seems to be such an important matter— Harry's latest and most favorite picture of his boyfriend being brought to his attention. He sends a fond smirk up to the ceiling, soaking in the sound of Harry's tiny commotion. "All this trouble over a picture of me."

"Does your hotel have good reception?"

It ought to for the luxury label and appropriate price. "Yeah. I've not had any trouble—"

"Okay, I sent it."

"Right." Creaky in his bones, Louis sits himself upright on the bed and looks down at his phone, this time being so clever as to put the call on speaker. "Oh, there I am." The photo in question is there for him to assess. Louis blinks for a moment.

"...This picture?"

"Yeah."

"Uh... I don't remember this picture." Yesterday evening's paparazzi stroll through Ultra Fest— the motive is clear and the setting vaguely familiar. But this morning's hangover has left his memory bruised and achey, and much too sore to reach back in time for a decent recollection of specific events beyond the stage itself. Harry doesn't say anything, leaving Louis to assemble what he must expect to be a clever comment. Dry, as usual— but perhaps not clever. "I look like shit," he says lightly. "Actually."

Harry protests very seriously and entirely offended, "Louis! You look handsome!"

But evidence of exhaustion is hardly a concept Louis finds appealing. "Look at me eyebags." His dismay is muted as a tucked thing under his breath so Harry's feelings can sit unscathed; somewhat fragile.

But instead, the disapproval brings Harry to suggest innocently, "It adds character!"

No character Louis would like to be. Grunge aesthetics and heroin-chic's trademark grizzly under-eye rings are unintentional. He's hardly surprised Harry lacks the ability to be critical of his appearance. Flattering— he doesn't care to debate the matter. Legs crossed, back hunched; Louis rests his elbow on his thigh and lets his head hang down for a quick rub of the eye with his thumb. The laying down of a half-averted statement; "I never get any sleep..." A reflective thought's sigh settling in his air.

He opens his eyes for a shift of his gaze down to the picture— and he can't help that.

Strange.

"Hellooo..."

"Sorry. Still here." How many more pictures like these must there be? Is there a picture where he glows with a good night's rest? However, how many invasive portraits must set sail across the web without purpose offers a dizzying and surreal topic of little interest to Louis. No matter. Bad bargain— a meager offer.

"Well, anyway, do you see... like, that's my favorite picture of you right now. That's what I was thinking. It looks quite dramatic— because, see, I'm a photographer. Right? So I know."

Why Harry is so particularly fond of the picture? A matter Louis has yet to put to proper consideration, and one he doubts(at a passing glance) will interest him either. Simply— surely there must be better pictures. He's always held himself in the highest photogenic regard. Simply again— _I remember looking better._ Well, _Maybe if things were better._

All complex and moody thoughts to process; sitting at his desk like paperwork. So much of his energy comes forward to bend his grief into humor, already. No place for thoughts like these. Years come in piles of books to sit in storage in a warehouse facility, and Louis's never been much of a reader.

"Me profile is quite nice, eh?" Louis straightens his back with a stretch.

"Yeah!"

"The jacket's Versace. Vintage."

"Vintage Versace. I love all your outfits. You always look good."

Louis can't help but smile, deciding on turning off the speaker and bringing his phone back to his ear. And down he goes— on his back, head on the pillow. "Where'd you find that picture?" It's a question aimed to derail the topic but ultimately intended to tease. Exposed— confess. _'You were snooping about, weren't you?'_ He keeps it quiet with a murmur that rests dry in his throat. "Where'd you look, eh?"

Harry tells him simply, "Tumblr," without fret. Common knowledge; always known to be so. "Because then I can see um... I can visit the blogs and see all the nice things they say about you."

"You got that from me."

"I've got my own account now, you know. Got this um... extension thing?"

"Mhm?"

"I can see what they say under each picture."

"So that's what you do all day?"

"I save them as well."

"And scrapbook?"

"Yeah, scrapbook, posters, shirts, DVD's, USB's, Bluray... I've got a kiosk and sell knickknacks. Souvenirs of my collages."

Louis snorts, grinning to himself as Harry goes about his snail-paced rambling. He can see him now: lying down on their cozy king bed, eyeing the decor with the thoughtless gesturing of his hands at every word's note. Waving as composers do. Lips pursing, brow furrowing at whichever moment subconsciously deemed appropriate. But it's not real— he isn't there for Louis to see. He could be on a train, or hiding in a restaurant bathroom. Louis doesn't know. He's not there with him. London is 4,426 miles away from Miami.

He sighs.

Suddenly he misses the trademarks and the mannerisms so much and much too dearly. And that bothers him; the rat's crawled into the house for a creep through the cupboards. _You weren't careful. You weren't paying attention._ Addiction— she is a demanding and parasitic presence. Louis suffers withdrawal from just the smallest empty space. He'll need tobacco in his lungs, he'll need a lover before his eyes.

"Do you look for pictures of me?"

"Me? Yeah." And he cocks his brow with some sort of sour taste. "I started it." Defensively, "I'm always checking to see what you're up to."

Like a dog scavenging for scraps. Or, if he cares to make the comparison a noble one, a hungry hound on the hunt for prized, fleeing game. It doesn't mean he's good at it. Harry goes about the quest more efficiently than Louis could ever find himself with the time to. He just scrambles through the Twitter search results for 'harry styles'. Forgetful, he can never remember the usernames of the accounts that aren't abandoned. Or in Portuguese. And most of them lack dedication to posting every new picture of Harry, to Louis's great and daily disappointment. Regardless, it's a journey destined to end without profit— Harry never goes out. Hermit's life. The pictures are never new and the media's news is perpetually old news, as Harry always gushes to Louis about his affairs first. These days the only thing Louis's nose diligently sniffs out is public perception of his curly-haired baby. But that's no good, either. Picking scabs to hiss at the sting. Louis never takes well to criticism— of Harry, that is.

And that's that regarding _that_.

Louis's lost his track of the conversation, so he takes the wheel and turns it his way. "Oi, you haven't sent me any pictures of you these days." He can't remember the last time he brought this up. "Me reservoir's dry today. What's up with that?" But it isn't the first time he's called for attention on the matter.

Harry always endorses the same statement: "I don't take any pictures." But he does all the time, in fact. So he'll always correct himself. "Not of me. I've been using my film camera these days. I just take pictures of um... like, other stuff." Plants and bedrooms and whatever other broody subject matter he'll choose that doesn't reflect how rich he is.

Louis sighs and focuses his eyes up to the darkness of his room. Nothing to see at all. That means more than it ought to. "Take a picture for me, then."

Harry's a bit taken aback. "What, like..."

"A picture of you. A lover's memento for a lonely lad abroad."

"Like a sexy photo? My dick?"

"I'd be content with a picture of your pretty little face."

"You know I had my picture taken a while back. Outside um... oh wait no. Those were fans. In New York." Harry's referencing his own informal promotional pleb-stroll through the city. All tired, sweet, and bundled up in his black coat and fluffy curls in some restaurant. Louis is familiar with the photo collection.

"I've already wanked to those."

"Hey!" Harry bursts out laughing, surprised by the candid confession. Hardly the first.

"Cropped, obviously. Zoomed in. Aim for the dimple. I never told you?"

"Stop~" Harry whines all small and dishonest, giggling in flattery and too much joy to support the shyness he means to project.

"It takes me approximately 5 hours apart from you to miss you terribly, Harold. You never give me enough to work with." It's an honest complaint, now harmless upon trimming of the thorns. "You know, like an emergency supply. You always have lots of me." It's hard to know whether Harry will dismiss his plight or not. He could go either way, depending on how light he cares to keep the conversation with the shower of humor.

"Watch porn or... read fanfiction or something."

"You want me to wank and read at the same time? Brilliant."

Harry giggles.

"Not all of us get off on Bukowski's poetry."

"It is quite good!"

"I want to be in your aaass..."

"Oh—" Harry stammers with a laugh. "So now you're horny." Teasing, "Well there's not much I can do about that over the phone."

"Send me a picture," Louis tells him with blunt and finely tuned delivery that he's glad Harry finds funny.

"No~!"

"Send me a naughty picture."

"You said a selfie would suffice!"

"Then a naughty selfie. Or just a cute one. Anything." Louis's amusing himself with the seriousness of his desperation. It's an irony— because his tone is an honest one. He's just that dramatic right now. Why on earth? Louis gives a tired stretch on the bed yet again, this time blurting out a fresh concern. "You in bed?"

"Yeah. I got in when you called."

Louis smiles at the accuracy of his own fantasy. "I knew it." Does it count as a dream coming true? A foreign sense of higher judgement warns him to recruit better dreams. "You sound sleepy, love." His voice shrinks to an adoring coo. "What time is it over there?"

"Mmm it's... two in the morning."

Louis pulls away his phone to look at the time on the screen before bringing it back. "It's only nine o'clock here" And he realizes, "We've been talking for two hours, you and me."

Harry mewls, characteristic of a good stretch. Then comes a sigh. "I'm sleepy." Nearly a whisper, and entirely sweet. "I'm waiting on you. I miss you."

"You miss me."

"I miss you I miss you..."

Words that promise to move Louis beyond parameters. Even under custody of the darkness his eyes glimmer with the bloom of his affection at Harry's adoring plight. _'I **miss** you.'_ Across the seas, broadcast through a single cellphone— and they move him, always. Smiling, "Aw. Me poor baby..." Harry always cozies himself up tight to words woven as warm as those; wool or cotton blend— Louis is sure to provide them. He smiles wider when Harry mewls as another precious treat. Such a sappy lover, and a sucker for the tiniest taste of Harry's teensiest troubles. And yet, however endearing, it pains him always. So he must let Harry always know. "I miss you too, sweetheart." But the longing doesn't help his current state of mind. He misses Harry so much more, now; with every word he speaks. "You know that..." Mustn't make it a matter of inquiry under any circumstance. That would imply doubt. Louis only longs for the opportune gift of the words that tell him,

"Of course. I love you."

Louis's reaching up to touch his scalp in a mindless fidget before switching his phone to the other ear. "I love you, too." Licks his lips, sighs as big and quiet as he can. He doesn't know why he glances at the closed hotel door, at the light beaming from under it. Always a chance occurrence, this feeling— that ascending, buzzing need for distance that never disappears. Of aching loneliness and the soft anger that comes at his powerlessness. The sorrow of solitude never comes when he expects it.

But Louis mustn't overreact. He lets his hand dip under the hem of his trackies.

Just to keep his hand warm, though...

"Go get yourself some sleep, yeah?"

"No... I mean I can't anyway. I'm like... a damsel. Waiting for her beloved by the window. Only I'm in bed. But I'm looking out the window in spirit. I miss you. I really can't sleep when you're not here."

Louis wishes he could tell him he'd rather not hear him go on about it. He doesn't know what to say without it dusking the mood to something blue. _Well, alright, I can't do shit about that so... Sorry. You know, what the fuck am I supposed to do?You wanna tell me?_ That would be mean and he'd never be mean. He forces a smile Harry won't see anyway. But he figures it serves more efficiently as a motivational gesture for himself. "You're usually falling asleep everywhere."

"I'm exciteeed."

"Yeah?" No forced needed to curve up Louis's lips for that smile. He chuckles, too; listening to Harry's giggle.

"So... I can't sleep. Not until you're here."

"Me flight's not due for a few more hours. Then there's the actual flight hours." He can't help tell him, "No, I mean it, love— get some sleep, yeah? You'll probably wake up with me there in bed with you."

There's silence for a moment, conveying some atmosphere that suggests Harry's taking the time to be careful and considerate about averting Louis's proposition. That would be his unequaled capacity for courtesy(should he care to be). "Can't wait to give you kisses." This is the only statement he deems worthy of expressing in this moment. He's thinking out loud, painting the picture for Louis he's kept drafted since hosted his private sendoff the airport. It's important, he'll tell you— _dire_. He expresses, "My kisses are... the best."

"That's true. Your kisses are the best kisses."

"After you get in bed with me, I'm, um... gonna hold onto you forever. But... for now I'll just miss you until I fall asleep on your side of the bed. And it's really warm. I love the smell."

The worst possible improv romantic narrator. Harry's words are dearly slow and repetitive. Careful, though they hardly amount to anything worth hearing for the ears of any other. _"What the fuck are you on about?"_ And then would come the honky, mocking cackling. But Louis could hear him breathing, could hear his heart, could hear the mumbles in his sleep— forever, whenever, and always. Harry exhausts himself in a battle against insecurity when he's expected to speak for too long to anyone. But it's never been the case with Louis.

"What's it smell like?" he asks; encouraging. So Harry rambles and he mumbles and he pauses to his liking without fret, and without thought. Pure, it is; raw and fragile as it comes. "Go on."

And Harry chuckles. "Um... cigarettes." A pause that tells Louis he's is taking the time be as accurate as he can. "And.. I think... soap, a bit. But it's my soap, I think. But you use it as well. So it's kind of the same thing. I mean, it is your smell."

"That's true."

"But I love your smell." He smiles. "It's... my favorite smile— smell." And he laughs. An occasional adornment, always: the laughter when catches himself suddenly conscious of his terrible prose. Louis joins in, slapping his hand over his eyes. "I've got candles on, by the way!"

"Candles!" he laughs. "God, now there's a surprise..."

"Vanilla! You know how the room gets, the nice warm color from the flame. I feel quite cozy. I'd be napping right now...Right now I'm on my side on your pillow. You can imagine, right... just... how cute I look."

"Oh, I can. Definitely." Naked or in a t-shirt with tiny briefs. On his side and curled up, no doubt. Harry enjoys all forms of cuddling and snuggling, but it's when he's alone that he shrinks like a street puppy looking for a warm spot. Louis will find him stretching one of his shirts if not wearing it like a scarf. Always invasive. The sight greets Louis as a family friend when he comes home to Harry. "You're precious." What a lovely picture that is. Harry's such an artsy boy; a way with the brush. Louis can see it vividly as he stares up at that dark space above his head.

"What about there? In your hotel room? What's it like?"

Any likeness Louis suggests would be a barren, depressed one. So he recycles past sentiments expressed. "Same as always. It's like... not having you here."

"It's like we're in the same place, then."

A suggestion handed to Louis like comfort food. Louis's always the chef in that area. Harry never knows exactly what to say. But that— that was a lovely thing to say. And he agrees, in rewarding gratitude, "I like that. That's a lovely way to put it."

"Yeah, we're never really apart. That's what I was thinking. We're just on different sides of the same mirror. Only thing is... we can't see each other. That's all, you know? When you think about it..."

"Yeah."

And they share silence after that.

In Louis's side of the mirror he hears the hum of the air conditioner, the faint static of the long-distance phonecall. He and Harry share that moment of absence, their love dancing as a shadow in the dark. Their moments— they always assign their appointments at night. Moments carved sweet and only in a sad way. Louis doesn't like thinking about Harry so alone. But Harry can't help but always tell him. Insecurity, mostly. _'Don't think I don't...'_

Louis's side of the bed always smells like cigarettes and Harry's lavender bath soap from Kiehl's, because Harry never sleeps on his own side of the bed unless Louis is sleeping there first. Which he never does. A one-sided nest that's only ever known warmth on the left hemisphere. And it means everything. Their beds in every home they've bought have always held their most passionate essence; every love's episode absorbed and kept as groundwork. Harry's endlessly bound to bedside, himself. Bedridden; cheek to Louis's pillow with his hair a freshly-washed mess of curls nestled on the cotton fabric. He likes it when the side of his face touches it and squishes as he lies curled on his side. Phone to his ear this night, and sleepy green eyes blinking at the wall so vaguely illuminated by burning candlelight. He'll find fulfillment in the sound of Louis's breathing alone, holding his phone so close to his ear.

iPhone #3. Phonecall with Frankie at two in the morning. That always means everything. Harry reaches up to scratch the side of his nose before switching his phone to the opposite ear and slipping it under his head, pinched between pillow. So he can bring his knee up, and rest his hands on the tip of his knee while he plays with the sleeves of his sweater. And he's so tired. He just can't sleep at all.

"I miss you," Louis tells him. "Pretty soon you're gonna be with me for shit like this, yeah? We're gonna be together all the time."

Harry smiles. "My Mr. EDM star! That'll be a weird crowd for me."

"No, you'll love it. Really, I mean... it's fucking incredible out here."

"I'm glad you're having fun. I like it! I love it. I love um... like, just checking up on things like that. And seeing you do that."

Harry was watching the livestream yesterday but he already told Louis that in the first thirty minutes of their phonecall. He apologized for making things about himself when his commercial inspired more hysteria than he could have ever anticipated— but that was something they addressed yesterday night. If it was hardly acknowledged at all. Louis said it didn't matter before changing the subject to gush about his own reaction again about how he watched the world react to his boyfriend live. Harry changed the subject to ask how Louis's day at Ultra Fest was. Harry has a habit of multitasking when they talk on the phone— speaker on; thumbs tapping through the web for pictures. Yesterday it was pictures of the festival and whatever other gallery he found. His very favorites— of which there can never be too many— Harry never hesitates to save.

The speaker is on, now. Harry holds his phone in his hands like a precious token as he looks at that picture of Louis he sent. Black and red vintage Versace jacket and a t-shirt, with a black cap to match. He has the best nose in the whole world, Harry will tell you. Should he ever get the chance. Whenever that is. Harry keeps hope it'll be soon as closely as he keeps this phone with him.

"No more damsel left at home," Louis's promising. "Never gonna leave you home nowhere. I want you with me all the time." His voice is perfect when Harry's looking at a picture of his face.

In hushed certainty Harry makes his own promise to join the cistern of a million other ones. "You'll be with me for my stuff as well." He taps the screen twice to zoom in on Louis's face before zooming back out. "All the time, right?"

"I'll be with you 'till you get sick of me."

But he zooms in again. "I can never get sick of you. I get sick without you." Gemma cringes when she overhears Harry's Shakespearean melodrama. _'You know it's not... good... to be so obsessed with a person like that. That's not healthy. It's not cute at all, in case you can't see it. Which you can't,'_ she'll say. She's a journalist, she's all clever. She reads up about things. _'You're a miserable witch. You wouldn't know what love is.'_ Black ice; blade sharpened with cynicism to pierce and poke out of place. And Gemma gets sad and won't talk to him for a week. Harry can never bring himself to feel sorry. Not after seven years.

It's quiet again. Harry knows better than to think he's said something regrettable. He hears Louis give a brief hum through the phone; a muffled chuckle of endearment. He's thinking about something, breathing nice and steady.

"What are you wearing?"

Harry doesn't know if he should answer honestly. But he's always venturing past the walls of the unknown as only a stubborn boy such as himself can. "Just my underpants and my hoodie." _Should I say it?_ He didn't dress himself with the intention of having Louis know until he finally got home from his long flight, and cuddled into bed with him until the afternoon. He turns on his back and places the phone beside him on the bed before sending a look down at his hoodie with a quick lift of his head; patting over his stomach, pinching the long sleeves between his thumb and index finger. "Actually, it's uh... it's your hoodie," he tells him. Hands clasped over his belly as he rubs his bare feet together. "Don't worry, it's big."

Louis chuckles.

Harry's fidgeting. Eyes clear like the calm before the hurricane. Thoughts coming down speeding a mile a minute in a hum. He just thinks; functioning as a separate mechanism from his words. "It's... one of the Vetements ones they sent you." He's thinking about Louis lying on his back all alone in his hotel room. Just trackies on, smelling like soap and a cigarette break if he isn't smoking right now. _What **does** he look like right now?_ Yesterday's pictures aren't enough. _"A lover's memento for a lonely lad abroad."_ It was such a lovely way to say it. Louis always says things better than Harry ever could. _I want you to see me._ Harry turns his body to rest on his side again as he looks at his phone. Baby pink case; just a tiny crack on the screen from when he rushed to cover it from prying eyes. It burns in his throat, that bitterness that comes from _hiding_ and muffling his love so it never makes a sound.

"Which one is it?"

Harry's just so stubborn and scandalous. It mustn't swell him with so much shameless pride when he murmurs, "The Titanic hoodie," before picking up the phone again. And then so sweetly, voice rippling for just a second's excitement, he tells Louis it's, "The same one she had." The exact same one.

Louis laughs so fondly, so endeared. Captivated by Harry's jealous, possessive tribute. Somehow so crass— like a dog pissing over previously marked territory. He's so grateful for it. He's so proud. A whirlwind come to him at once, scrambling the words on his tongue until he's searching for new one. His breathing is so clear, suddenly. Just a bit faster. "I bet you look fucking perfect in it..."

It's a massive hoodie with a picture of Jack and Rose locked in embrace as the sinking Titanic ship overlays their figures at the bottom of the design. Crisp, vibrant black cotton— and a lot of it. Size XL. It's shapeless on Harry's lean frame. She wore it nearly five months ago. But it was in their house just last month for Louis to wear. Harry recognized it before he even knew why they sent it. He took the liberty of snatching it away and hiding it his bedroom drawer. Louis asked around for it in a bad mood and Harry relished in the fruit of his pettiness when he saw that Louis had to wear another design for a sponsored stroll through LA. That was so satisfying he was able to sleep through the night for the first time in two weeks. But he realizes now...

...hiding it isn't nearly as satisfying as taking a selfie in it. And pressing send.  
  
Harry can hear the ring of Louis's phone receiving a new text through the speaker. Silence sits still to the count of six, escorted only by the sound of Louis's breathing. Harry's eyes land on one of the candles he placed on the floor, perched on a tiny plate and not too close to the wall. He wishes every flame would die at once. Just to mirror the darkness in which Louis sits. But then, if that should happen, he wouldn't be able to take another two selfies.

"Aren't you precious," Louis murmurs his praise under his breath with a peculiar pace of breathing. "You're just the prettiest little thing."

A talented photographer Harry is, despite the poor lighting determined to work against his . He's made ambiance of it all. A picture of himself on their bed; hips turned, one thigh across to display all that bare skin and cast the veil of modesty as he hides his naked bottom half. He's yanked up his hoodie to show off the soft crinkles at his torso and the pudgy skin of his hips. Sleepy eyes; snuggled up with Louis's pillow. Dark and dubious innocence.

"I thought you told me you had pants on." Louis's voice crawls low and quiet in that tone that Harry knows always comes in hand with a smirk.

Harry tells him, "I wanted it to be a surprise," before pressing send on the other two selfies he took. Not quite a selfie in the technical sense— this time Harry shifted his camera's gaze to his uncrossed legs. Freshly shaved from Louis's farewell to Miami; his hair doesn't grow too fast. Baby soft and flaccid between the thighs is rare. But it's such a poetic deed to have done. All visionary in the grammar of artistry the way he likes. Louis is most likely thinking none of those things. When Harry turns off speaker and brings his phone back to his ear, he can hear Louis breathing climbing with such drive you'd think they aspired for a place among the stars.

"Are you touching yourself?" Harry sends the question up to the ceiling, letting his legs open up just a bit. Faint dimples on his rosy cheeks, goosebumps beneath his skin before his hand even made it under his hoodie for that first contact.

"Yeah."

"Since when?"

"Since you told me you loved me." Louis's so charming about his debauchery, the notion effortlessly courtly in its core. Bowing, reaching out for a dance. Harry's enchanted. "Got me dick out, me trackies down to me thighs. I'm hard already."

"Yeah?" The hand on his stomach slides up to his chest while the other one holds on tightly to his phone, keeping it pressed to his ear. Hardly is it the first time he's naked in some sense in their house, but the most familiar things transcend to taste new; these trying times. These domestic fantasies are as record players spinning the melodies that only exist in playback. They take him and embrace him. Louis and Harry's paradise is so stunning and lackluster and it's perfection, made imaginary in emptiness. Harry's cock is stiffening with a tingle down his legs. He can't help but slide his hand down to pacify the commotion. But all he does is foster it, nurture it with the clumsy squeeze of his hand. "Are you thinking about me?" Of course Louis is. But that childish greed he never outgrew makes him long to be spoiled with an excess of the unnecessary.

"I never think about anything else."

Harry whimpers so faintly, stroking his stiffening cock knowing he's giving Louis material.

"I wanna feel you with me..."

The gift of a vivid imagination makes him a visionary artist, and unbelievably talented at bringing his fantasies of Louis to life. The scent of cigarettes and cologne filling the room, the deep temperature of his body on top of his as he kisses him deeply. Harry kissing him back with legs spread for him to settle between. The way it's meant to be. "I'd make you feel so good." Harry strokes his cock up and down, thrusting his hips as if he meant to be careful, entranced by the sound of Louis's deep breathing. Curious thing— the transmission of breathing this way. Nurturing his imagination with a sprinkle of audacity an equal taste of the bizarre. So amusing, above all. Harry has such a creative streak for concepts as these, no matter how routine. Mostly, he forgets everything that no longer sits before his eyes. Everything holds the capacity to be exciting. Phone sex— it's thrilling tonight. Harry bites his bottom lip with a tiny smile, eyes cast to the ceiling. "I want that big cock in my mouth."

Louis hums. "Down on your knees?"

"Yeah. While you sit at the edge of their bed..." Harry has to stop to take a deep breath when that first goosebump greets him at the gates. Licking his lips, lungs stretching their capacity. "Your pants would be off, your knees spread while I've got my face between your legs... And... you'd hold your cock for me... and wag it side to side for me to see..."

"You'd be patient," Louis is so proud to say. "You'd wait until I fed it to you."

"Yeah..."

"You wouldn't keep those pretty eyes off me..."

The room would be filled with light— daylight, summer's window breeze illuminating the interior landscape. Louis would see everything. "I'd get it so wet for you. Drag my tongue under the shaft, and kiss over all the veins." The ridges and the faint crinkle of foreskin as he drags it up and down. His lips wet, pouty, and ruby— the way these performances tend to manipulate his body's standard. "Then I'd swallow you down all the way, with my eyes closed..." Harry pumps his fist in his hand, eyes closed as he narrates his fantasy. "I'd have my hands on your thighs, and touch up your stomach just all over your skin, and down your hips while I'm sucking you off."

Louis's breath leaves him hot and heavy in his lungs. "Fuck, you've got a good mouth, babe..." he moans. "You'd suck me good, wouldn't you? Your pretty little mouth stretches so nice around me... You'd let me fuck your gorgeous, gorgeous face...."

Harry's pleasure rushes past his lips as he shuts his eyes, rolling his naked hips over those pristine sheets. "I like it when you're rough with me, Lou..." He loves it rough. "With your fist in my hair, pulling me up then back down on your cock until it's down my throat. I wanna choke on it." Until his brows curve up and the breath stops in his chest. "I wanna feel how you throb in my mouth, on my tongue."

"You're so good for me..." Louis moans. "Is it big enough for you?"

"Yeah... You're so big... " Harry's words take their steps in tedious tumbles. Lagging sweet and sentient and tired in their core; loose strings, careless breathing. "Your cock is so fucking big..." His mind can never process the maneuver of arousal and thought co-existing. Both together— then they'll corrode, stun his nerves, and lift the hand from the steering wheel. Can hardly remember to keep his phone pressed to his ear as his body sinks and slacks from pleasure. It feels like Louis is there, right there with him if he just tries _hard_ enough. "I just wanna make you feel good... " Harry will promise with every fraction of time flickering past their eyes that he _lives_ to _please_ , and he will shape the dynamic of his desires to service his only love, his absent bedfellow, the flickering fire that brings light to his nightfall. "I wanna be between your legs, I wanna look up at you, I-I wanna suck you off so good..." he gasps, rubbing his thumb across the head of his cock. "I want it to be me... I want everyone to know it can only be me." Shaped this way in a vision passing through a cellphone speaker. What talent. Harry finds a way to make what will suffice. What Louis yearns as a pathetic visitor to his unbearable isolation they are bound to share as guests. Shared room; mirroring always.

"You're perfect, Harry..."

"Mmhh..."

"You're fucking perfect..." His breath wavering from how fast he's stroking his cock. "Shit...."

Louis's pulled his trackies down to his ankles and kicked them off the bed. Brow furrowed, head thrown back to his pillow, but always so careful to keep the phone by his ear. With eyes closed he touched himself to Harry's imaginary feature fil, thrusting his hips just a bit to mimic the image. "You touching yourself for me, babe?"

"Yes."

"Good boy... "

Louis turned down plans for this; for bittersweetness in the dark. Being alone with Harry means reminding himself of how little they've come to hold as priority beside one another. A dark hotel room at 9:29pm, a cellphone with 43% battery left, and his lonely hand on his cock— among the smallest, and most frequent of archetypes that mark their world's dynamic. But it's perfect and it brings life— it gives life. Louis will always be as fascinated by the harvest of their determination, jealousy, and obsession. Mountains out of molehills— how accomplished they are together. How efficient. How crafty.

"I-I'm rubbing over my cock, both hands between my legs... " Harry moans, "...while I swallow you down my throat..."

"I want you on the bed, love... Spread your legs apart. Let me see."

Their mental scenery moves in unison. Both sides of the mirror reflecting the same picture. Harry getting up from the floor where he sat between Louis's legs, giving him a kiss before placing himself on the bed. Head on the pillows, eyes cast up at Louis as he settles himself on the mattress and moves between Harry's legs. "Like that?" Harry asks, imagining his heels digging into the mattress, his gaze cast up like a puppy dog while Louis tells him,

"Just like that..." just like he does over the phone. With dark eyes staring down between his thighs.

"How do I look?"

"Like an angel," he breathes. "Wearing nothing but that fucking hoodie you made your own... hiked up your belly, everything right there for me to see... Your curls a mess from me pulling on it, your face all red like you've got any shame..."

Harry's touching himself to Louis's voice, to his own lewd image being placed in his head.

"You keep your head up off the pillow just to watch me move between your legs, touching up your thighs."

"I'm so hard, Lou..."

"I see you, baby..."

"It hurts..." Harry whimpers, moving both his hands down to touch the inside of his thighs just to make that ache his own. The throbbing whirl of contact lost, denied. His erection bobs over her black hoodie, leaking sweet slick onto the cotton and staining every fiber.

"Want me to suck it?"

"Please," Harry begs through the phone. Louis pictures him with his head on the pillow, looking up at him with pleading eyes. "Please, I want your mouth."

"You watching me go down on you?"

He wouldn't keep his eyes away. "Yes." Watching with eyes half-lidded as Louis lowers his body until his face meets with Harry's cock, his hand reaching to grab hold.

And Louis moans, imagining himself with eyes closed as slides Harry's cock in his mouth. "Me lips around the head, licking across the slit while you leak on me tongue... Like that?"

"Yes..." Harry gasps, his hand back on his cock.

"Sucking you off real gentle for a bit, just teasing you..." he's panting, squeezing his cock with every stroke sent up and down., picturing the scene rapid and vibrant. "And then I'd suck you off hard. Swallow you down so quick you wouldn't know what to do..." Just to watch Harry throw his head back with a groan. "You'd cry out, thrust your hips up, wouldn't you? You couldn't help it."

"I-I couldn't help it..." Breathing it, promising, "I couldn't help it, I couldn't..."

"You're so desperate, babe. Thrusting your hips up in me face." Louis's got his eyes open, watching his dark hotel room blindly. The cold air is settling into his skin— his bare thighs, his dick, his balls. It only makes his craving for warmth and bliss stronger, like burrowing into the hot underground. "I bet you just love the sound of it. How wet I've got me mouth around you, the way I'm swallowing you up. Drives you mad."

"Yeah..." Harry makes sure to be loud. Broadcasting every thought that comes to mind. "Fuck..." he breathes small and tight before moaning. "Your mouth is so tight around my dick, Louis..."

"Feels good?" Louis lifts his head to look down at what he can make of his cock in the dark. No vulgar detail to the long, fat shadow— it's not much. But nothing ever is. Especially when he's living out a simulation through a cellphone call in an aching, tiring hand. He brings the other one to his mouth and licks the palm before bringing it back to his cock. Wet now. That's better.

" _God_ , yeah..." A precious noise sent his way. Harry turns his head into his shoulder with eyes shut tight, jerking himself off as he imagines Louis's mouth on his cock, the heat of his body between his legs.

"Who else can make you feel this way?"

"You, y— Only you... only you..."

No one else. Pride and sexual drive make him a selfless saint and a naturally dominant sadist— as per request. There's always a will to succeed when Harry suggests a new pinch of spice, accompanied by his ravenous appetite and that gorgeous mouth of his. Louis's cheeks are red in the dark, his eyes brilliant and burning through his passion. "Who am I?"

"You're the man I love... M-Mine..." Harry whimpers in his deep, hushed arousal; breath heavy, heart fast. "Louis..." A million ways said and a million ways born new like supernova; a star-speckled night with constellations and compasses to bring the good back home.

"Say it again." Wishing in a near blasphemy that someone would hear, that someone would finally know.

"Louis..." The tiniest pained whimper; delicate sorrows, flower petals plucked. "You're mine, Lou... Fuck..."

"I'm gonna fuck you on that bed until you're crying out me name. Gonna fuck you so hard I'll have the bed knocking into the wall." Words burning and quickly muttered past his lips and under his wicked tongue, the smoke thicker with Harry's every moan. "I'm gonna kiss you everywhere. I wanna see your face under me, red and wet with sweat while I slam me cock inside you..." A moan has its way with his own voice, pushing it off course as he lets his head drop back with the bite of his lip.

"Please, Louis..." Harry lets is hand slip from his cock down to his ass, lifting up his knees to touch over his hole. And a shiver courses through him, the hand holding his phone trembling. "Want you to fuck m-me..."

"Are you tight?"

"I always stay tight for you, Louis..." A toy or the prying of a finger are useless companions. Harry feels his identity stain with the shame of sexual dissatisfaction— such filthy greed. Because without the slapping of Louis's balls, the push of his hips on his ass, the taste of his lips sliding across his tongue, the bruising of his teeth stamped across the surface Harry's skin— it's never enough. Just a cold and lifeless thought that manifests nothing, and inspires only a deeper gash that demands mending.

But it's different when he can hear Louis's voice. Burning bush to a prophet.

"Lift up your legs. Let me see."

Harry places the call on speaker, phone still in his hand. Knees up, feet off the mattress. He wants the fantasy fed plentifully more than anything. "I need you, Louis..." But he'll feed it first. Like the cheeky minx he is.

He can hear the jingle of that new text message on Louis's phone. Speaker's off, now. He wants the transmitted sound of Louis's voice without distance or echo's distortion when he says,

"Fuck, baby..." His breath hitching as he jerks himself to the picture Harry sent him of his hole on display between his spread thighs. "You're so lovely..." he tells him with ravenous appetite. "Got such a pretty little hole..." And Louis wonders if anyone could hear him. Broadcast; speaker on and proud as he holds the phone above his face. If a stranger overheard him in the hotel corridor, if his friends came home early, if someone barged in— What would they say? What would they think? What would happen? The beam of the LED screen is a star advertising his dilated pupils as a symbol of tonight's purpose. His only visible feature is a symbol. Sinister and spiteful arousal— and nothing more than a ghostly apparition.

"You gonna fuck me?" Harry sets his phone aside on the bed, speaker still on as he pants. Candle's flame and heavy breathing make the room feel so hot, his skin beginning to gloss with the sheen of sweat. He doesn't know where to look. Sight betrays him, so dubious. He could swear Louis is here, hearing him when he begs, "Please..."

Louis would be kissing him, his body on top of him heavy from how hard he pushes down onto the mattress. He'd feel his beard, taste his skin. Unwrapping him like a gift as he yanks and pulls the clothes from his body. "Doesn't feel good unless it's me?"

Remind him. "No."

Voice as dark as the black in the center of his blue eyes. "If it's not me on top of you, lips on your neck kissing you while I'm teasing your hole— does it feel good?"

"N-No..."

Louis's wrist is beginning to sting, keeping up a phonecall for so long. His posture's all wrong, his toes dragging across the sheets. It'll ache his body and exhaust what energy he has left by the time he boards that flight home. A worthy cause. "You're holding back your legs for me so good, Haz. Putting on a little show for me while you pull on your dick, and touch up your chest under that hoodie."

An orchestra's loyalty to the music on the sheet; Harry slips his hand under his sweatshirt to play with his nipples, while the other tugs on his weeping, flushed cock.

"Once I've got you nice and stretched out for me," Louis murmurs to him sweet, endeared, "I'm gonna move between your legs— right where you want me, yeah?"

"Yeah..."

"Rubbing lube all over your hole, pushing just the head in before pulling out... Over and over..."

Harry brings his fingers to his mouth, his wet tongue lapping at them, moaning, lips closed around the digits. He fucks his mouth, coating his fingers with spit until they're slick. Speed comes clumsy like trying to meet with the pace of a story's telling. Harry's set out to have his actions match Louis's words— always the better reader.

"And then I'm pushing in, squeezing me cock inside you..."

Harry brings his wet fingers down to his hole and pushes in. The ring of muscle is tight and hesitant to stretch around him. His brow furrows tightly, bottom lip pinched under his front teeth. But he must be accurate; his emotional insistence to reenact every image of every word is electrifying. So he goes on, moaning through the dull sting as he stretches around his joined fingertips. Two at a time; pushing inside his abstinent hole. His lips part for a silent whimper, breath held in his chest. "Louis..." All he says. "Louis...  
All he needs him to know.

Louis turns his body until he's flipped over; forehead to the mattress, cock thrusting against the bedsheets with his knees kept apart. "You're so tight for me, love..." he breathes out with a shiver, baptizing the new position. Immediately he groans as he squeezes the head of his cock hard in the palm of his hand and thrusts forward slow. "Fuck..." Voice cracking at the single syllable. Not so much the sensation as it is the sentiment that grabs him by the bones and smothers him in feeling— this feeling. "Baby..." How must that sound through the phone? Reeling Harry in with his words, jaw clenched and eyes shut in the dark. No vision for the whole night. He appoints the task instead to his heart.

And the image is so perfect.

Because he's home.

And Harry's neck is so damp and warm when Louis buries his face in, branding him with the latch of his mouth as he pushes his cock inside his hole. His hands slide under Harry's hoodie where he palms his chest and feels the heartbeat quaking under his skin. The mattress sinks under his knees with a creak, his weight forward. Breathes out, kisses the crook of Harry's neck with eyes closed and he slides more and more of his cock inside him with a moan. Tight, and wrapping him with heat as it swallows his shaft inch by inch. Pushing until his balls meet with his skin, and his hips are pressing against his ass. Harry sighs deep and heavy, letting out his next breath as a whimper, feeling so full. His legs are around Louis's waist as he turns his head towards him, his body molding to the shape of him. And he's pinning Louis down, pinning him on top of him, his arms wrapped around his back. Needy, this way. Keeping him in place so he can enjoy that first thrust of cock inside him. Louis admires his determination to get what he wants.

"Missed you, Hazza..." Tells him so gently; whispered, lips ghosting over his ear. Showering him in gifts— every sweet word under the moon. Hearing him breathe beside him, how they align their dynamic. "Missed how good you make me feel..." A kiss to the temple, his arm hooking under Harry's to rub his shoulder. He won't want Harry to say anything so he kisses him. Head tilted, tongue in his mouth as he brings his hips back. And Louis's body rocks forward like a ship set in motion. A strong roll of his hips; currents crashing; slamming his cock inside Harry and relishing in the noise he tastes in his mouth; a long, deep whine breaking through. Harry kisses Louis harder, squeezing his eyes shut as he moans. Drawing in a heavy breath until Louis's pulling out and pushing back in again. And again.

No one's ever caught them fucking before. Thrilling as it is a terrifying concept. Louis balls deep inside Harry, drawing out pleasured cries with every thrust of cock in his ass. They become as one as they always feel— an enthralling and grandiose statement made in the world. Louis knows the shape of Harry's inside so well. He moans, hands planted on the mattress as he pushes his weight off Harry. No way— Harry locks his fingers together behind Louis's back and forbids another inch gone. Glassy eyes looking up at him before he cracks an adorable smile, barely suppressing his whimpers as they scribble the strung-out vision of _pleasure_ and _ecstasy_ across his face. Louis is forced to hold his weight on his elbows, a playfully disappointing smirk sent Harry's way before he's absorbed in those eyes. Fucking him, controlling every reaction. They're so chatty on the phone— but now they can't find the words. Here, stitched as props in their shared fantasy— every word is already spoken.

Still,

"You're so pretty..." That was Harry's honeyed murmur, barely above a breath on his lips as he looks up at Louis. Fucked slow, resting his head on the pillow. He doesn't know what to say. That smile comes— the world's worst romantic improv speaker; laughing at his poor choice of words. Louis's mind becomes distracted, his weight awkwardly distributed on his knees. His focus on Harry's reaction, at the rosey hue across his face and chest. You're the pretty one, he thinks at the dazed in Harry's eyes while he fucks him. As if their context didn't exist at all.

"Hi, baby..." Louis smiles. Why would he say that? Of all things.

Harry doesn't give it much thought. "Hi..." Mewling until he gets another kiss, sliding his arms around Louis's neck. And Harry's aching cock is brushing against Louis's stomach so he finds himself a bit obliged; hand between their bodies and around Harry's erection. Harry gasps, lifting his head up to look down. A Tomlinson trick— he found a way for Harry to let him lift his body up. Just one hand in the end. Some slight distance makes him feel like a holier man, despite the measure of their time apart poisoning his sound mind. But there must be just enough to keep him held above, held paramount, placed in charge. 

"Look how hard you are." Pulling Harry's cock back so it slaps forward onto his hard belly and over the butterfly. Louis's movements are carried out precisely; so aware of his body, and even moreso of Harry's. _He feels so good_ , he's thinking. He sighs, murmuring, "You hard for me?" Looking down at Harry's lips when he whimpers,

"Yeah..."

"I'm gonna fuck you so hard..." he promises in hushed sounds, thrusting inside Harry with ease and tedious pacing just to watch his face struggle to keep any morsel of composure. "You're gonna feel me all night until I come home to you..." Tidbit left over from the real world. Just a phonecall. Just a fantasy, after all.

"Fuck me..." The only words Harry has the capacity to express with a faint gasp, bringing Louis's hips forward with his legs around his back. Inviting with selfless desire, "I want it hard, I-I wanna feel you..."

With eyelashes casting a dark shadow above his eyes, Louis snaps his hips forward for a tight jab of his cock inside Harry. Rocking his body up as he lies on the mattress, and triggering a choked whimper from him as he squeezes his eyes shut. Louis pants with a smirk, "Like that?"

Harry can only nod his head, leaving his boyfriend to moan at his vulnerability while he jacks off his fat cock for him. And so Louis tightens his pace. Witnessing Harry, marveling at the masterpiece from above. "F-fuck... _fuckk_..." Harry pants, breathless. His eyes wander across the ceiling, while his hands drop down from around Louis's neck and onto his own chest. Under his sweatshirt, pinching his puffy nipples until they harden between his fingers. And that drives him closer to his edge, always; he closes his eyes and focuses on each feeling, and how it offers him an escape from his present world to feel it all swelling his cock. Louis takes that road alongside with him, his balls tightening as they slap against Harry's ass. He holds his breath in his chest before letting it slip away, sucking in another inhale through his teeth that he lets go much quicker. Sweat on his brow, his blue eyes glassy; dark mahogany on the lids. His damp skin gleams a highlight across his cheekbones and he looks so sharp, so strong. Arms tense and tattoos dancing on his skin as he carries out his task, replaying his fantasy.

" _Shit_..." It overwhelms him, suddenly; feeling his body reacting this way with Harry's. It crashes down past the atmosphere  anfd engulfs him. It hasn't been long at all since they last shared each other's physical intimacy. But every minute, moment, and frame of time rots through his foundation until he gets what he needs: living through that routine as they always do. Mirrored; complete. Harry moans under his body as he always does, bliss in his eyes the way they always glass over. And Louis looks down as a caretaker, a leader— as he always, always does. "Look at me, baby..." Harry is obsessed with the accuracy of his obedience— he opens his eyes and looks up quick. Looking at him and into him. Louis reaches down to grab Harry's hands and place them above his head. One hand there, gripping Harry's wrists to pin him down while he uses the position to hold himself up. Like a natural reflex, Harry brings his knees back more, nearly touching his chest, spread wider for an easier angle. Louis yanks down his sweatshirt to cover his belly again and places his other hand on the back of Harry's thigh and pushes hard. Looking down and never looking away. And Louis tells him, "Cum just like this."

"Like this..." Harry echoes in a whimper, thoughtless as he looks into his eyes. Eyebrows curving up when Louis fucks him faster.

"Just like this, Harry..." Louis hisses low in the back of his throat. "Just for me..."

No hands. "Shit," Harry giggles. But it quickly hiccups when Louis draws his hips back, pulling his cock out nearly all the way before slamming it down inside him. And Harry groans, gritting his teeth as Louis starts fucking him with unforgiving zeal. Toes digging into the mattress and struggling to keep himself in place as the force slips the sheets down again and again. Frustrating him, overworking him into desperation as he drives his cock into the heat of Harry's body with a pleasured growl. Harder, faster. And Harry responds to him with fluent pornography. "F-fuck me, fuck me...!" he begs breathless, head lifted to look between his legs at how Louis's cock pushes into him, rocking his body back. His eyes focus in on his own cock, then. Quite the undertaking its been charged. Harry whines just looking at it, amplifying the ache of that swelling pleasure from the pressure of having to cum untouched. Watching it leak onto his belly is dizzying. " _Louis_...!" he whines again, begging for assistance.

Louis kisses him instead. That suffices— that suits Harry just fine. More momentum to Louis's thrusts as he brings his body down, every thrust coming with a slap of sweaty skin clashing. Louis kisses Harry hard and messy. Moaning into his mouth, lapping over his tongue before breaking the kiss. "You're gonna make me cum..." he speaks over his lips.

"Yeah?"

"You're so fucking tight, squeezing down onto me cock..."

"I want your cum..." Harry moans before stealing another kiss from Louis. "I want it... 'want it..."

"You're fucking greedy, eh?" He slams his hips forward once, twice— hard enough to make Harry throw his head back and cry out his name. "Want me to breed you, want all that cum inside you..."

Dazed, he whispers, "Yeah..." Pupils blown, the curls at his hairline wet and sticking to his forehead.

Breeding— what a vulgar word of solace. A particular choice. It taints his soul to long for it so hungrily. But every inch of ground he places his feet upon sits categorized as sin. Tainting, of scandalous imagery shared privately if even at all. Even now they fuck each other in a fantasy and that's not registering as a pathetic thing yet. It can't. Harry's sweating in _her_ sweatshirt and he doesn't know what he'll do with the thing after this. If he'll keep it as a garment or a spiteful memento to make him feel better about being so angry sometimes. Sometimes he gets so angry he just can't stand it. Just gets crazy ideas in his head sometimes. Breaks like these would leave him a mad man with no place to run.

" _Oh God_..." he whines, toes curling when he feels Louis brushing against his prostate.

That personal vocabulary— Louis knows exactly what it means. His eyes intense, his body tightening with passionate vigor. "Yeah?" _Have I hit your sweet spot?_ When Louis feels Harry's hands trying to pull away from his hands grip he quickly moves his other hand to meet it. Pressure; squeezing down hard with a growl as he fucks Harry faster, making precum ooze from the head of his cock when he shifts his angle, and his cock finally jabs down again and again on Harry's prostate. Seven years of practice has made him an expert lover— only precise evasion can leave that bundle of nerves untouched for this long. And he smirks, watching Harry squirm and moan under him, under his performance. "Come on... come on... That's it..." He can't help kissing him, he can't help lose his balance a bit until he's thrusting his whole weight down. It makes Harry heedless, moaning for every thrust of that thick shaft pounding into him.

He feels it in his toes first— " _Louis_..."—that spark.

"You gonna cum, baby?"

"I'm g'nna cum..." he rambles with his gaze fused to Louis's. And that drives Louis wild— that sight, that song. When sweat shines on his skin and he's rosy with feeling— then nothing in his head ticks. Like the air stills, the breeze that drives reason forward gone. All he ever does is surrender vision to Louis like a blind man reaching for the rails. How Louis's cock is throbbing inside him, how the sweat runs down his arms and onto his hands where he keeps them pinned to the pillow. Fucking him hard and fast the way they only ever want it, even when they're moody and desperate to patch up the pieces and make love. Always fast.

"Come on... come on..." Louis always noisy and in control of things, and Harry surrendered in heavy, giddy capacity. Voiceless, whimpering and moaning for every note hit when Louis curses. Both looking down at his cock, waiting to see how he cums this way, this isolated and concentrated in sensation. "Come on, baby..." he's hissing."Cum for me, let me see you fucking cum for me..." Because Louis's peaking with him— that mirroring, that timeless accord. His balls are twitching, the pit of his crotch aching. He's running out of ways to change up his tempo, thighs quaking as they struggle to keep going much longer. So he just goes fast. Snapping his hips forward over and over, squeezing Harry's wrists so hard they're hurting him.

"Fuck... oh f-fuck...!" Harry gasps, nearly edging over completely. Brows curved up as he watches his cock bouncing in ache as his orgasm reaches him. "Louis—" Almost. "Louis, I'm g'nn—" Right there. "I'm cumming I-I—" Right there. "I'm c-cumming I'm...!"

Harry cums all over the hoodie  _Eleanor_ wore first. Spurting from the ruby tip of his cock, spending itself all over Jack and Rose's faces. It hurts at first, and Harry loves it enough to moan as his eyes water. His body shutters with every tiny release, gasping through his orgasm he presents to Louis as a gift, in fact. Just maybe. Harry isn't thinking when Louis's fucking him so hard. And he stops breathing when Louis suddenly goes stiff with a gasp, thrusting the length of his cock into him all the way and leaving it there pressed, thrusting against that limit as he cums inside him.

"Ffffuck...! _F-fuck_!" Spending the orgasm he only saves for when he has Harry. Even if he doesn't really have him now. His legs straighten out and he's groaning with a fractured voice, eyes closed as he goes on to thrust forward until it's fruitless, until there's nothing left to give him except closeness. He releases his mean hold of Harry's wrists before letting himself lie on top of him. Harry mewls his giddy approval, wrapping his arms around Louis's neck and hugging him close. Louis sighs into his neck, still thrusting what softening length of his member he can.

Closeness is an awfully ironic thing to give him.

Considering they sit 4,426 miles apart. Harry in their house, Louis in his hotel. UK versus USA. London versus Miami.

Louis lets himself fall on his side as his heart attempts to ease its speed. It takes him four seconds total to realize he still has a phone to hold by his ear. Another five to realize he came all over his hand. He lights his phone's screen over the mess and frowns, despite being a tiny bit impressed. It was a generous orgasm; a bit of semen across his knuckles, though most of it left behind on the floral hotel comforter. He sighs without enough energy to decide on what to do with that hand. So he keeps it at arm's length. Another tall and tired sigh. His body is exhausted and an exhausting device to operate.

The black void of his dark hotel room reminds him with considerate accuracy of the actions that unfolded prior to this great and bittersweet release. Perhaps more sweet than bitter.

"Did you cum?" he asks Harry. The only proper thought he can generate.

Harry doesn't share the will to be chatty. "...Hm?"

"I asked, did you cum?"

"Yeah."

Louis can make out the smile on Harry's face just from the sound of his voice. "Did I make you feel good?" He didn't do anything. Phone sex tends to do that. Louis doesn't know why he's pretending it wasn't the case

"Yeah," Harry answers with sincerity, mirroring Louis's tone. "You always make me feel good, Lou."

 _I always make him feel good_. Louis drafts a response to make away with the subject, but Harry keeps it relevant for a bit longer, asking,

"Where did you cum?

Louis sighs with a generous breath pulled in and held in his chest as he turns over on his back. "Inside you."

"Yeah?" And Harry giggles. "Oh. I didn't, um... I didn't remember. I was trying to remember... because I remember you told me." His voice is very brittle and small, set aside occasionally for breathing to cover ground on its way back to standard speed. Extended silence means Louis doesn't know whether he's finished or catching his breath. Athletic as he may be, sex demands energy from more than just his body. And that's the place that exhausts him the most.

Louis hastily sharpens his focus on the tiny, concentrated speaker of his phone to whelm himself in whatever fits through there. Only the most important ones do: Harry's labored, loud breathing, and the sleepy hum of the limbs he stretches on the bed. Louis holds his attention as straight as he can for whatever Harry might say. It feels precious, suddenly. Fleeting and valuable because of it. Louis squeezes the phone tighter than he means to, tightens his brow without meaning to at all.

"I came on, um... on your side of the bed."

"Yeah?"

"Sorry."

"That's alright, love." Louis says it much too sweetly.

Harry can't see things as remarkably. He lies on the bed with the bend of his elbow covering his eyes, while the other keeps his cellphone to his ear; speaker off. "Now I have to do laundry." Chores at three in the morning. "But first I have to... nap... for a bit."

Louis's face falls a bit. His tone is a pleasant and jokeful one. "You're not getting back up." Poking fun at him. But Louis doesn't smile at all.

Harry laughs quietly before giving a whine. "...Probably not..."

"Probably not."

Little boy looking at the school gates while his parents stand behind him.

 _"I don't wanna go..."_ he'll say.

_"We'll be right here to pick you up in the afternoon, darling."_

_"What if you're not there?"_

_"Not there? Sweetheart, no one's abandoning you. Why would you think that?"_

Not every fear is a rational one. But neither is the truth. It hasn't been for a long time.

Louis knows Harry's fallen asleep when he counts five minutes of silence standing its ground like an apex predator making an impression. _You win_ , he thinks in an inappropriately gloomy way. Louis just can't bring himself to hang up.

What must Harry look like? Louis forgot to ask. There's two nudes sitting in his phone he'll have to delete later. He imagines him half naked and spent from passionate, pathetic phone sex. This sex comes with a price they'll see in the monthly phone bill. _You'll see him in a few hours_ , Louis tells himself in an overtone, not realizing he's coddling a bad habit of being clingy, rationalizing all time spent apart with all the ways they'll be reunited once more. But imagining anything is difficult now that Harry isn't dipping the brush in the oil palette and presenting him the canvas coated with colors; a scenery sitting before him. Louis could wake Harry up and make him talk to him again but he wouldn't dream of it. On the plane, he'll dream of his smell, the weight of his body, the texture of his curls, the color of his nails, and whatever wonderfully obscure taste in fashion he'll have clad on his body if he isn't just wearing Nike sweats and a donut hoodie. He prefers the former. Then he can compliment him.

But Harry's there, still. With him. Albeit, in that half fragment; asleep on the other side of the phonecall he forgot to end. But he's still there. And he'll be right there when he arrives tomorrow morning the way he always is. When did he get so paranoid? Louis frowns with a sigh, phone to his ear, eyes focused in on the nothing of the dark hotel room ceiling. Cement ceilings and dark rooms where only the presence of a two-way mirror can kill the claustrophobia. The room feels lonelier than it ever was before.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed the story. Please leave kudos and share with me your thoughts.


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